drafting perfect sense

 
you've been sitting on a sentiment of bricks  
stuck together  
by the lowliest of things  
for such a long time now.  
 
your feet couldn't be further from the ground.  
 
 
i keep forgetting that poison  
is no longer in the shape  
of fangs or ruby apples  
 
and that beauty isn't skin deep, it's  
how perfectly we outline  
when the room is cold.  
 
 
a man once tried to convince me  
that he was interested in art as much as i was:  
that our naked bodies  
would be  
the perfect  
sculpture.  
 
i told him it would never happen
 
because he looked  
nothing like the man  
i kissed in my  
dreams.  
 
 
you told me  
you didn't like starry-eyed girls.  
 
i thought you were joking  
because of how much  
you loved  
looking at the sky  
on a clear night.